


Beleaguer

by dawnstruck



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, First Kiss, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You fell in love with his soul first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beleaguer

You fell in love with his soul first.

You didn't know it then, didn't notice it.

He is eleven years old, a patchwork pattern of flesh wounds and bruises under his eyes. You are world-weary and war-hardened, and he reminds you of every red-eyed orphan you ever set aflame.

It seems like he is only held together by what must be half bandages, half spite, but he's got a tenacious grip on the handles of his wheelchair, like an animal poised for one last desperate attack, ready to lash out if someone so much as moves unexpectedly.

You should say, Human transmutation is a criminal offense punishable by death.

You want to say, I'm sorry for your loss.

Join the army, is what comes out of your mouth instead.

 

When you see him again, he does not walk but run, does not speak but yell.

Edward Elric is made up of defiance and extremes. His love is absolute, his genius all-encompassing. The Führer names him Fullmetal and doesn't even know half of it.

You find yourself as a rock amidst a teeming sea, and his flood waves clash against you, reckless and roaring. You do not yield. Give him something to rail against, to break his furies on, and maybe he will mellow with time.

He does not. Bit by bit he erodes you, wears away at your edges and your spikes. For the tides are eternal and he is still so young.

Water, after all, has always been your greatest weakness.

 

You come to think of him as a compass, unfailingly pointing the right way. He's a magnetic pole and you are drawn towards him.

You like to view yourself as a man of honor, but back-stabbing comes too easily to you for any of that to be true. So you sit behind your desk, your fingers steepled and your smile secure, and watch as he tries to claw up your smooth facade.

Oh, and he will tear and tear until he has destroyed that layer, too.

Sometimes you wonder whether he wishes to see you raw and bleeding, whether he wants to dissect you like a specimen and dig around your entrails in the name of science. But then he goes and starts picking himself apart, like the scars and absences on his body are not yet enough, and you understand that there are different kinds of destruction.

You are a clockwork and he wants to figure out what makes you tick.

He is a pound of flesh that he suspects must be rotten at the core.

Yet how can a thing decompose when it is still so very much alive?

 

Tell me no, he implores when he overwhelms you once more, and you do not know whether this is unexpected or whether you had been anticipating it from the first time he looked at you a little too long.

Tell me to stop, he begs as he clenches his fingers around the collar of your uniform, as he pressed himself closer. Tell me to leave, you stupid, stupid-

He is shaking like the autumn leaves you trampled on your way to work this morning. And if he is really quite so brittle, quite so fragile, that just means that you ought to handle him with care, that you mustn't crush him with brutish hands and fickle words.

I won't, you say and try to catch him, all of him, his gaze, his fears, his franticness. His lips.

Oh, he says, open-mouthed and small-voiced, like he had been waiting for kicks instead of kisses.

Oh, you think when you touch him and more than just your mouths fit together. Because suddenly everything makes sense.

An epiphany and you can see the dust particles twirling through the air where the October sun falls through your window in yellow streaks, slinking over polished wood and into darkened corners.

There is a sound. You can barely hear it over your twin heartbeats but when the door opens you realize that it must have been a knock.

Oh, Riza says when she steps in and sees you with your arms around him, sees his hunched up shoulders and your helpless adoration.

You expect to find scorn in her eyes, or shock or surprise or _jealousy_ , but instead she just looks at the two of you for a moment that is nothing more than a blink but feels like an eternity to you. Then, a soft smile settles on her face, her brow smooths its furrows, and she lets out a small sigh.

You have a meeting in five minutes, she reminds you, fingertips still on the door handle, I think I can buy you five more.

You give a mute nod of thanks and then she is gone, but Edward is still there and you don't quite know what to do with either of you. So you kiss him again.

He tries to whisper semi-formed sentences into your mouth, but you kiss his words away, one by one, steal his eloquence until he is speechless and you are too full of affection to let anything else brim over.

He is soft against you like nothing in his name or nature would ever let anyone guess but you have seen him play with lonely children, have seen him hug a hollow armor that would never feel his warmth. The steel in him is a necessity, after all, but his corn silk hair and acts of mercy are a choice.

Choose me, you want to demand. Take me, accept me, have me.

But then he is already up on his tiptoes, throwing his arms around your neck.

And maybe that sea is still there, stormy as it ever was, but he is the sole survivor of a ship wreck and he clings to you like a lifeline, so you mustn't let him drown, mustn't let him go under.

You breathe air into him and he gasps like love and oxygen are new concepts to him.

Thus you wait and don't waver until the flood ebbs away and only leaves gentle ripples in its place, lapping against your ankles, your naked feet, until you are no longer quite as likely to be suddenly torn away from the shore.

I should go to my meeting, you tell him, though your eyes are only on him and never on the hands of the frowning clock-face above the door.

Yeah, he agrees, clearing his throat a little awkwardly. I mean, yes. Yes, you should-

He tries to step back, out of the immediate reach of your arms, but you follow after his North Pole, plant another kiss on his forehead, less urgency, more promise.

I'll be back in an hour, you say and he starts, stills, then nods a little jerkily.

I could use a nap anyway, he claims with a feigned little laugh, and you smile.

Dream of me, you tell him and that at least makes him roll his eyes.

I think I prefer the real thing, he mutters and then unwillingly extracts himself from your embrace.

Then you shall have it, you swear and it is one of the few truths you have spoken in the past decade.

Maybe he realizes this, too, realizes that he has scraped some off the darker days off the years you have on him, because he rubs a hand over his face like that would not draw attention to the color that has lept into his cheeks.

Yeah, yeah, he drawls, already inching towards the couch, not quite ready to turn his back on you yet, on you and your habit of blindsiding him.

Go and lick some boots, he shoos you off.

I will, you say and wonder whether you will still be allowed to kiss him with your rotten tongue.

His gaze drops off to the side, shy and unused to looking at you without some sort of battle cry cresting his lips.

But then come back here, he adds, embarrassment tight in his voice. Your smile widens.

I will, you echo yourself, echo your heart, and turn towards the door where Riza must be holding the line, fending off those who would infringe on your five more minutes.

Good, he huffs a little spitefully, throwing himself down on the couch, plucking at the hemline of his sleeve.

It is the first time that winning a war has made you feel like a victor and that makes you realize that maybe none of this was ever a fight to begin with.

.

.

.

.

Beleaguer. To exhaust with attacks.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't quite know what this is. I had been toying with the first line for a while and wanted to try out 2nd Person POV and this is what happened.  
> It feels a little all-over-the-place, but I like how it turned out, so I hope you can find some merit as well.


End file.
